


Sacrifices

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Never Far from the Queen [6]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen, Long Live Feedback Comment Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Iovara failed his hopes and expectations, betrayed his teachings and turned away from him… But she was… important, and he cannot just sit and wait for the gods’ judgement. Not when he is perhaps the only mortal who can speak to them face to face.(A little tie-in to "Immortal, Infallible" - Thaos pleads with the gods to spare Iovara's soul.)





	Sacrifices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Star_Miya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Miya/gifts).



He gets up, walks a few paces, turns, walks again. Stops by the chair,puts a hand on the backrest, resumes walking. Slowly, without hurry. If any of his acolytes saw him now, they would think him calm and composed. Those really observant would know that when Thaos is calm, he sits or stands in place, and that he never paces when he needs to think.

Inside – in his mind – he is calm only because he has an iron grip on his thoughts. He made a mistake – perhaps more than one – definitely more than one – and now time is ticking away, while he is not certain how to put things right.

He should not have told Iovara the truth; should have shrugged her questions off, should have pretended to be outraged at the old priests’ heresies – he will deal with them, too, later. Oh, yes, he will. After so many years of service, they should have been wiser.

As he should have. But she was more than a mere apprentice – that fire in her, so similar to the one that used to burn within him – the thought of having a successor who understood the purpose of their holy duty – it blinded him – and he was so afraid of losing that hope for the future that he made the worst, most basic mistake of all and _did not think_. He let… sentiment… make him careless. Never again, he vows silently. Never again.

He should not have given her so much time to reconsider, should not have let her leave. But he could not bring himself to just… dispose of her. Not that simply.

He laughs inwardly; it is mirthless and has a sharp edge of something akin to fear to it. Well, things will be more difficult now, since he could not deal with simple.

The gods will not forgive this. But it is not himself he is worried about. He has no delusions of grandeur, but he is aware of his… usefulness. There might be punishment – later, when everything is back in order – but he knows that the gods will not dispose of such a versatile tool so easily.

Iovara is another matter altogether. And he knows well that whatever awaits her, death would be more merciful – but the gods do not waste time on half-measures. Ondra, especially, likes what should be forgotten to be gone for good. And there is only one way to wipe someone off the still-blank cards of history forever – by destroying their soul.

Iovara failed his hopes and expectations, betrayed his teachings and turned away from him… But she was… important, and he cannot just sit and wait for the gods’ judgement. Not when he is perhaps the only mortal who can speak to them face to face.

* * *

 

The ceremonial robes – the very set he got from… the apostate – feel heavy on his shoulders, but he knows Woedica demands the finest quality – especially of her servants. And some of the other gods will like this reminder: here is the most powerful of the mortals, and he is nothing but ash and dust at their feet. Thaos is no naive fool; this will not be a pleasant talk.

He walks into the inner sanctum, seals the door behind him and slowly steps into the very centre of the chamber. And then he kneels on the stone tiles – a humble, lowly penitent – bows his head and waits.

There is no sound, almost no change in the air; he manages to keep still, but it feels as if his heart wanted to jump out of his chest; a very mortal, physical reaction. Woedica’s slender palm strokes his hair gently, her other hand brushing his shoulder. She is standing behind him and a little to the side and he cannot see her, but her touch is real enough.

Thaos briefly closes his eyes, inhaling the smell of frozen flowers, ice and molten iron. And waits.

“I was wondering if you would come,” Woedica murmurs, her voice deceptively soft and warm. And then suddenly her fingers tighten in his hair, forcing his head up. “You have erred. Gravely, some might say.” She steps forward and pulls until he tilts his head back far enough to look at her face, into her eyes.

“I know, my queen,” he replies quietly. “I will beg your forgiveness for that, should you wish me to.”

Woedica laughs, amused. “And on your knees, too?” Her touch becomes more gentle, and now it is a caress. “No, there is no need for that. Do you know why?”

Thaos inhales slowly. “I could guess, my queen.”

“You guess right.” Her fingers slide down his neck; it takes a lot of his self-control not to shiver. “Because that which makes your err and misjudge is the same that makes you serve me so faithfully. What goddess of justice would I be if I begrudged you that?” She strokes his hair again and then brushes the back of her hand across his cheek. “Shall I call them?”

“If you would, my queen.”

Woedica leans in and her warm breath tickles his ear. “Make me proud,” she whispers. It sounds better than ‘bear whatever comes with dignity’, even if the meaning is the same.

The Queen steps away, and Thaos bows his head again, waiting. The air becomes more dense, with an undercurrent and the scent of magic like before a storm. The pillars of adra are humming quietly – high-pitched notes, barely audible to the human ear. And then he senses the _presence_. There is no word to describe it in any mortal language, in any language at all; but he remembers all the souls, and this is like the weight of all of them combined.

Unfortunately, some of them – most of them – have kept a few of their mortal vices. Some more than others.

The first thing Thaos hears is Magran’s merry laughter, like the sizzling of flames.

“Well, well… I could almost understand what you see in him, Woedica.” She laughs again. “Kneeling suits him.”

“Envious, Magran?” Woedica asks pleasantly; it is clear from her voice that she is smiling. It is also clear that it is the kind of a smile any sane person would try to avoid.

Gods are not people; not any longer. And can you be sane, remembering all? Then again; they are not mortals, so perhaps they can.

“What is sanity?” speaks Wael in one voice echoing with a hundred. “Is it certainty? Is it calm? Do you feel sane, trying to learn from your mistakes and _fast_ , because the gods have time but can choose to be impatient? Because in this matter, they would be right to do so? Do you feel sane, avoiding that one word at all cost – not wanting to think it even though it is closest to the truth?”

That is his cue. Wael does not need servants, but scholars.

“And what is truth?” Thaos replies with a question, lifting his head.

“What is your truth, pilgrim?”

“Mine.”

There is silence, and then the hooded figure – for the sake of the past, Wael often spares Thaos the sight of the usual eyeless face – raises both hands and claps them lightly. And then slowly nods.

“Yours,” Wael agrees. “To do with it as you will, before we shall.”

Wael’s trials have always been the least difficult ones, for him.

“Wouldn’t it be easier,” Ondra whispers – she always whispers instead of talking; as if her voice could sound either like the hum of waves or the roar of a storm, “to simply forget?” She is trying to be understanding – maybe even to truly understand – she is trying to be kind. “To put it into our hands and have at least this burden taken off your shoulders? My ocean is vast; it can drown sorrows and still have space for more. What about your soul, Thaos? How much can it take?”

He will not lie to himself about this: it is tempting. Wonderfully, terribly tempting. But he cannot do this; cannot give up this part of himself. Woedica told him she does not wish him to do that, but deep in his soul, he feels that, too – not like she meant it; differently. He will take this part and break it up and put it together anew, into a desired – necessary – pattern, but he will do so himself. He will not make an offering of that, too.

And it would not be just to make Iovara pay with her soul. Life – yes; he has sacrificed many lives, other people’s and his own. But a soul is another matter. A soul… He does not believe – not like the rest of the clergy, nor like the faithful – not even like those they call the heathen – and sometimes he envies his apprentices that; he does not believe, but if anything is a sin, it is destroying a soul. He knows. He had been there.

They should know it, too. Perhaps they have forgotten. Perhaps they look at it differently. Or perhaps, like Wael and Berath – and Eothas – they remember those souls, they commemorate them.

“I do not know,” he answers honestly. “But we can easily test that, can we not?”

“It is your choice,” Ondra acquiesces. “But not mine. Some things should be forgotten.”

“But some should not,” Abydon says. Just that; he never talks much.

“Maybe.” There are literal sparks dancing in Magran’s eyes. “But I would love to hear him beg, first.”

Thaos knows she only does that to humiliate him. To show Woedica how lowly her servant is. And to remind him that they might have been equals once, but no longer.

“Enough of this,” there is a quiet rustle, and suddenly a soft feather mantle falls over his shoulders as Hylea stands beside him, laying a supportive hand on his arm. They have never been very close or friendly – can any god be friends with a mortal, anyway? – but she is the patron of language and arts, and he has written many prayers and hymns; they are well acquainted. “He is here to beg for his daughter’s soul.”

“Apprentice’s,” Wael corrects.

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Hylea protests hotly.

“I’ve never said they are.” The shadows under the hood shift as Wael smiles.

Magran laughs. “Would you beg for him, Hylea?”

“I stand beside him,” the Sky-Mother replies, lofty as only a bird can be. “I will never turn away from a parent begging for their child’s safety.” She smoothes the mantle over his shoulder and for a moment Thaos feels lighter, and his knees hurt a little less.

There is warmth at his other side, like that of the sun at noon, and he swallows a curse – and his pride as well. He will bear Eothas’ compassion, if he must. He has to.

“Well, what did you expect?” Eothas asks their divine audience – judges – as if he was jesting. “I am a god of redemption. What can I do but give our faithful servant a chance to redeem himself from his mistakes?”

Eothas does not speak further, but deep in the corner of his mind Thaos hears a quiet voice. _You would lay even that at her altar? That last shard of light you carry?_

Thaos takes a breath. He does not have enough strength to argue, even with Eothas. _It is easier. You should know_ , he adds, without venom, just with bitterness. _You should know; you, who carries all the light_.

“I do,” Eothas says out loud. “I support his plea,” he explains.

Thaos knows that was a reply to his thoughts.

“Very well,” Woedica speaks, her clear voice cutting the air like the tolling of a bell. “Deal with her as you see fit, Thaos. There are many empty cells in the soul prison, should you fail to convince her.” She gets up, luminous like white adra – and her glow equally harsh and cold. “But if you fail, Rymrgand will take care of her soul.”

Rymrgand only nods. He has not spoken at all; in this, he is more of an executioner than a judge.

“Very well, indeed,” Galawain laughs. “Let the hunt begin.”

“It already has,” Wael adds, unasked, as he often does.

Thaos winces inwardly at the words of both gods. But that is what it will be. And he chose it. Death would be better for her. This will be better, too. This is not like erasing a soul from existence; there are things that cannot be undone, but as long as the soul lives on, they can be… reforged.

“Let him prove himself,” Galawain grins, flashing his teeth. “We cannot have a champion who is unworthy, after all.”

“He has already proven himself,” Berath speaks at last. “And he will do so again. There will be others. There will always be others.” He gets up, too; for convenience, he is wearing the form of the old soulmaster he – part of him – used to be; that is the form that speaks, but there are other silhouettes – shadows – standing behind his throne. “Life is a wheel. History is a wheel.” He nods at Thaos. “Another turn for you. Use it well.”

And then, in the blink of an eye, all the gods are gone, save for Eothas, Hylea and the Queen.

“Leave us,” Woedica orders.

Eothas rolls his eyes but obediently disappears. Hylea’s feather mantle ruffles. Thaos lightly bows his head to her in gratitude, and she takes the hem of her mantle and swirls it, and then she is gone in a rain of shimmering ghostly feathers.

Woedica walks over to Thaos, takes him by the chin and gently tilts his head up. “You did well.” Her thumb moves across his lips, just once. “For the sake of your apprentice’s soul, I hope you will do well in the nearest future, too.”

One moment, she is close and he inhales her warm breath – adra and ice and iron – and the next he is looking up into empty air.

Thaos tries to get up but his legs do not listen, so he ends up half-sitting, half-kneeling on the floor, leaning on his hands heavily, his fingers spread wide over the cold stone tiles. His hair falls over his face as he leans forward, drawing in slow, too-controlled breaths.

They do not watch him like this, at least. Small mercies…

“You would really offer her all?”

Thaos’ head jerks up. Eothas is half-kneeling on the floor right in front of him. There could be no greater insult than his pity; really, Thaos thinks he would rather beg Magran – if it was not an attempt doomed to failure from the start.

“Thank you,” he drawls through clenched teeth, “for your help and blessing. Now leave me alone.”

“You could be more, if you let yourself,” Eothas says quietly. His compassion is honest, and that is the worst of all.

Thaos shakes his head. “You don’t understand, do you?” he asks wearily, looking into the god’s shining eyes. His voice sounds hollow even to himself. “I want to be _less_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
> This author replies to comments.



End file.
